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110
MONODY. ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT ROBINSON.
I
“Warm'd by the glowing year,“Awake to life, harmonious strings;
“Still rise, my song, in numbers soft and clear,
“For still the garden smiles, the groves with wild-notes ring.”
In Hammond's bower, at ease reclin'd,
Thus I reliev'd my weary mind;
111
And friendship listen'd to the lay.
But what avail the flowers of song?
Must I thus drop th' unsinish'd wreath?
Or scatter it the tombs among,
To wither near the realms of death?
Ye flowery tribes, and vernal song, adieu;
A mourner sad I go, to court the baleful yew.
II
Again, thou yew tree's shade,Again receive your trembling guest.
Ye regions, where repose the hallow'd dead,
Find me some secret charm, to heal this aching breast.
Thro' garden, skies, and grove,
In vain should Fancy rove,
112
Faint all the myrtle's rich perfume,
And faint thy beams, oh! sacred light!
Ah! dearer now the church yard's gloom,
Where the pale empress of the night
Silvers, serene, the moss-grown tomb.
There fond to muse, in thought I now will stray;
For there my Theron sleeps, and I will bless his clay.
III
As in the lonely valeThe modest primrose droops and dies,
Or near the pathless hedge the violet pale,
So gentle Theron droop'd, so breath'd his dying sighs.
113
No children dropp'd the fervid tear;
No wife receiv'd the last request;
No friend the dying eye-lid press'd.
'Mid the deep silence of the night,
Softly the genial heats retire;
And quickly close his orbs of sight,
Like lamps, that suddenly expire:
Oh! wishes, that but flatter, to deceive:
Ah! prayers, that nourish hope, yet leave but cause to grieve.
IV
High on the topmost boughsOf Virtue's ever-blooming tree,
A flower, of rich ambrosial fragrance, blows,
Ah! never reach'd by Pride, fair Charity.
114
Climb the blest tree, and crop the flower;
And plant it deep within this breast,
To blossom there, a sacred guest:
The simple sweets should cheer me more,
When hopes decline, and grief invades,
Than could Arabia's copious store,
Or rich Italian shades.
If ever mortal cropp'd that hallow'd tree,
My Theron, it was cropp'd, thou kindest friend, by thee.
V
Among the village-youthThe generous Theron lov'd to rove;
To them he strew'd the honey'd gems of truth,
With all the patriot's zeal, with all the pastor's love.
115
Yet could his learning's fruitful stores,
And all his melody of tongue,
Charm wisdom's more enlighten'd throng.
Age ceas'd lost pleasures to bewail;
Contentment smil'd at poverty;
Labour would welcome pain, and hail
The orient sun of liberty:
“Still let me toil, still not inglorious toil,
“In Britain's happy plains, in Freedom's favourite isle.
VI
But, say, has Heaven in vainThe generous breast with freedom fir'd?
Shall friendship hopeless round their tombs complain,
Whom love of honest fame, and virtuous zeal inspir'd?
116
In peace their sacred ashes rest:
And oft the grateful bard shall stray,
To sing their worth, to bless their clay.
For brighter still their names shall rise,
Tho' time a restless course pursue,
Thro' fairer fields and purer skies,
And steady lustre shew.
Still in their works they live, and live to shine,
Like stars of human kind, a long illustrious line.
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